The Animatrix

How to conquer the world in eight easy steps

The Animatrix is The Prince for the electronic age.

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Alexander the Great, Genghis Khan, Karl Marx, Napoleon Bonaparte,
Adolf Hitler, Mao Tze-Tung, Joseph Stalin, Hannibal, Peter the
Great. Tears for Fears had it right when they said everybody wants
to rule the world.

The Animatrix, a seamless blend of American storytelling
and Japanese animation, is actually just a modern Hegemon. It’s The
Prince for the electronic age. Whether The Matrix,
which spawned this newest guidebook to world domination, is anti-Communist
(à la Fritz Lang’s Metropolis), capitalist (“I
can only show you the door; you have to walk through it.”),
or priestly doesn’t
actually matter. For unlike its politically biased predecessors
(see Karl Marx’s Communist Manifesto), The Animatrix and
its “Eight Easy Steps to Global Domination” can work
for you—at home or on the job—regardless of your political
affiliations.

Just add manifesto.

Step 1: Look like a victim

“Fly, Baby. Fly!” These are the last words the captain
of the Osiris speaks to his lover as she enters the Matrix.

The image of the Osiris peering over the ocean of Sentinels
as they dig toward the last human city of Zion may seem like a
simple prologue to The Matrix Reloaded, but in fact it
is the most striking image of Evil Superpower vs. Benevolent Little
Guy since the Tiananmen Square riots.

“The Final Flight of the Osiris” is
a tale of love, honor, bravery, sacrifice, the dream of every true
warrior: to die in the throws of savage combat against an innumerable
enemy. It is the story of Alexander the Great’s father. It
is the story of Russia’s class system as told by Marx. It
is the story of Napoleon’s checkbook.

As Machiavelli so eloquently noted, it is best to be loved by
your subjects and feared by your enemies. Militarily, fear gives
you a strategic advantage, while loving subjects will protect you
from assassination. Cinegraphically, this is best seen in Enemy
at the Gates. The Russian army, threatened with death if they
retreat, is facing the German army, which has caviar brought in
with the rest of their rations, and it’s losing until the
heroic shepherd boy from the Urals becomes the loved figurehead
of the resistance.

When you’re starting a revolution, a story like “Osiris” has
two important effects. First, it makes you look like a one-man
army that is faltering, with magnificent valor, against the endless
hordes it opposes. Second, it shows you as an indomitable warrior
who sees impossible odds and gets on the guns saying, “Come
and get some.”

People, especially Americans, love underdogs. It makes sense given
our national heritage. And what is more frightening to an evil
empire with half-hearted soldiers than a berserker with convictions
he’s willing to die for?

Step 2: Make them feel like victims too

Unfortunately, the noble warrior isn’t enough to inspire
a nation. You need to give your would-be followers a reason to
follow you. This is where a manifesto is helpful, but the real
key to starting a following is to make them think you are one of
them. For this, you have to have some mutual reason for being a
victim.

Cue “The Second Renaissance,” the
story of how the Matrix came into existence. Man creates machine, “and
for a time, it was good”; man tries to deactivate machine;
machine kills man; the machines get pissed and try to kill the
rest of mankind. It’s a story we’ve heard a thousand
times. It’s the classic “sins of the fathers” scenario.
Our ruthless, unbending, unloving fathers were offered peace but
because of their bigotry and ego, refused. Now we must correct
their mistakes. Is there any story more attractive to the I’m-sixteen-and-angry-at-my-dad
group?

The use of imagery in “Renaissance” is telling. The
news footage following the trial of B166ER resonates with the echoes—of
Tiananmen Square as a robot stands in front of a tank that rolls
over him; of the Montgomery riots as an army of police in riot
gear marches toward a mob overcome by tear gas; of the Holocaust
as the bodies of thousands of robots are piled into a mass grave.
These icons of repression are supported by the retrospective Zion
Mainframe’s repeated Biblical references. The narrator says “it
was good” about six times in Part 1, a reference to the Genesis
account of Creation. In Part 2, as the battle rages between the
humans and the machines, a mechanical rider on a robotic horse
blows a long trumpet, an image of the Apocalypse torn straight
from Revelation.

Catholicism, the gentile child of Judaism that emerged from the
ashes of the fall of the Roman Empire to become the superpower
of the first Renaissance, may very well be the institution represented
by the Matrix. Humanity (Judaism) creates a version of itself (Catholicism)
that becomes corrupted (remember that Spanish Inquisition that
no one expects? Or Pope Alexander IV, Rodrigo Borgia?) and rules
the world with an iron fist for three hundred years until a group
of insiders (Protestants) rebel and are forced away from what has
been their home into a new promised land, a New World, a new Zion
(America).

A stretch? Maybe. But couldn’t Neo be Martin Luther? He’s
got the monk robes and at the end of The Matrix he uses
a public telephone to give his ultimatum to the oppressing forces.
He says that he’s “going to show these people what
you don’t want them to see . . . a world without you.” The
95 Theses basically ended the omnipotence of the institutional
church in one fell swoop. The Matrix could just be an
analogy for the Reformation.

This is, of course, just one of many theories. It could be showing
the internal struggles of Christianity. It could be a
call for the denominations of Christianity (think back to Morpheus’ speech
in Reloaded where he calls for the walls to be shaken
all the way to the suburbs of Zion) to rise
up against scientific secularism. It could be the struggle
for Communism, or against it.

Basically, The Matrix is the universal story of any rebellion
or revolution in history, ever. And it is one that is needed for
any new revolution or rebellion to gather a following.

Step 3: Give them a hero

Up to this point, “you” has actually been “your
cause.” Because, as anyone who has tried to take over the
world knows, you and your cause become completely inseparable.
In the case of the real William Wallace (as opposed to the legend
in Braveheart), the cause of freedom was Scotland’s
and, more specifically, Robert the Bruce’s. Wallace was simply
a hunter who became the everyman figurehead. He was the boy down
the street who became a hero.

To this end, The Animatrix gives us “Kid’s
Story.” Teen angst at its finest presented in
rough images that shift even as they hold still. Kid has no contact
with Neo, the embodiment of the rebellion against the Matrix,
yet he writes in his notebook “Neo help me.” He is
not recruited, but rather instinctively knows that something
is wrong in his world and that somehow Neo is the way to correct
it. Neo’s only interaction with Kid comes when the Agents
of the Matrix come to eliminate this rogue element inside the
system. Kid’s cell phone rings and Neo is on the other
end, warning him of the impending danger. It is Kid who runs,
or rather skateboards, from the Agents and then hurls himself
off the roof of his school.

Step 4: Show them how to see the truth

So Kid understands, on some level, that the Matrix exists and
that he must get free. But does that mean that only a select few
are able to come to this knowledge? Absolutely not. What kind of
revolution is only open to a chosen few? Enter “World
Record.”

Much like Kid, the hero of “World Record” is a man
who seeks to break the rules of the Matrix. What is different about
the Record Breaker is that he hasn’t even the slightest inkling
that he is a prisoner in his own mind.

In what is arguably the most telling image in The Animatrix, a
group of runners suddenly morph into Agents just as our hero is
about to cross the threshold of reality. The Agents, whose speed
is legendary and can supposedly only be matched by Neo, reach out
desperately to halt the Record Breaker, but they get only air as
he speeds away from them. And in that moment he is free. For a
few brief seconds he sees the truth, he sees the Matrix for what
it really is. It is short-lived, however, and our hero is restricted
to a wheelchair hearing a nurse drone on about pie while he dreams
of pushing past the limits and being free forever.

So, what is the message? We’ve already seen Kid escape,
now we’ve been shown how to get Kid’s sight. We’ve
been instructed in how we can become like our everyday figurehead
of the rebellion.

Step 5: Give them the choice

The thing that separates every good rebellion from the evil empire
it opposes, is choice. Most empires are evil simply because they
say “this is the way it is, and if you don’t like it,
too bad.” Now that we have given the people a hero and shown
them how to become like him, we must give them the choice between
the empire and the rebellion.

The choice between freedom and contented servitude, of which we
saw both sides in The Matrix with Neo and Cypher, is established
as a pivotal element in gaining a loyal following in The Animatrix’s most
stylish piece: “Program.”

This is easily the most blatant of all the shorts. Not only is
the animation textbook Anime, the message is presented on a silver
platter. But this message is made easier to take with lots of the
medieval Asian-style action sequences that hooked us on The
Matrix to begin with.

Two freed minds, inside a construct program, debate the pros and
cons of being free and living in the Matrix while they sword-fight
in ways that would make the characters from Crouching Tiger,
Hidden Dragon drool. When our protagonist kills the man who
would go back into the Matrix—a neo-Cypher if you will—she
is released from the program and told it was all part of the simulation.
It was a test.

Such a test is indispensable to any rebellion. Rebellions imply
great danger, hard work, and leaving behind previous lives. They
thus require a great deal of work and faith to join. But you as
the leader must still weed out the infiltrators and those who have
lost their initial passion as the early romance is stripped away
to reveal the harsh reality.

Step 6: Add art to the list of reasons to hate the empire

Literature, the most elevated form of communication any society
can have, is also a great tool of a rebellion, though not for the
reasons you might think. Yes, literature can spread your message
to potential recruits. But because it can spread your message to
potential recruits, any evil empire worth its salt will try to
stop it and will attempt to censor your literature. When they do,
the empire has just handed you your most potent weapon.

“If they censor this,” you can tell your followers
and possible converts, “what will be next? They will censor
anything they don’t like.” If you are going to be a
world leader, you have to learn that you cannot mess with art.

The Animatrix illustrates this in the most enigmatic
of its stories: “Beyond.” “Beyond” is
the story of a group of children and a young woman who find themselves
in a “haunted house” where the rules of physics do
not apply. It is an anomaly of pure beauty inside the Matrix. In
another stroke of brilliant biblical reference, a white dove flies
across the screen at the zenith of the games in the house. The
dove, which also appeared at the baptism of Christ, represents
peace and the Holy Spirit, the entity who ties humans to God the
Father.

This articulation of art as a universal connection to God makes
it all the more precious. This “haunted house” appears
in the same way as a conduit to the “world without rules
or boundaries” that Neo speaks of at the end of The Matrix—a
world that he himself is introduced to by Trinity.

The haunted house is a haven of beauty among the chaotic streets
where the dreamers and innocents pushed aside by the society around
them can live their beautiful dreams, if only for a few short hours.
In the end, the evil empire steps in, destroys it, and puts up
a parking lot. (Instead of Juno Reactor’s “Conga Fury,” a
much more appropriate soundtrack for the credits roll for this
piece would be the Counting Crows–Vanessa Carlton version
of “Big Yellow Taxi.”)

Step 7: Give them a goal they can’t actually attain

“Detective Story” is probably the
most poignant analogy for modern romance out there. A detective
is hired to find the criminal, Trinity. Trinity, as played by the
beautiful Carrie-Anne Moss, is the representation of modern society’s
perfect woman. Attractive, healthily thin, but apart from the anatomy
could be a guy. For most guys these days, there is no greater aphrodisiac
than a chick who can kick your butt.

Our detective manages to track down Trinity, the perfect woman,
who promises him that she will open his eyes to a world he never
dreamed of. But when he does make contact, their meeting is cut
short by Agents—or reality, for our detective. Ultimately,
we leave the detective lighting a cigarette and getting ready to
face down the Agents while Trinity escapes her hunters.

Most guys over twenty on this planet can look back on that perfect
girl who got away because reality stepped in and tore us apart.
We all have our Trinity. But what does this have to do with taking
over the world? Plenty.

Trinity promises to free the detective from the Matrix, but freedom
is ultimately unattainable for him. Up to this point, you haven’t
promised your followers much, other than something better than
what they have. A world of freedom where there once was oppression.
Love where there was hate, life where there was death, beauty where
there was only bleak ugliness.

Now that you have a strong following and have thoroughly demonized
the evil empire you’re opposing, you have to lay out the
details of your better world. You have to paint the picture of
a utopia—and you have to show them the road that leads there.
But your utopia cannot be something attainable, ever. There’s
really no telling how fast these people will work. If they reach
your utopia in your lifetime, you’re bound to have trouble
from some young buck with even bigger dreams than you. But even
if you’re dead when they finish, you still have to worry
about your legacy. What’s the point of conquering the world
if you’re later usurped by a greater empire and forgotten?

You have to leave a mark so deep that it will never be forgotten,
so you must give your followers a dream so great they can’t
ever quite reach it, to keep them working toward it forever. This
will leave you with an immortal legacy. Now there’s just
one more thing to do.

Step 8: Make them believe they are the only ones who can do this.

This last step is critically important because of apathy. In the
early days of your revolution, you had a handful of dedicated and
militant followers. By now, you’ve got a couple of armies’ worth.
Earlier you were riding the wave of David vs. Goliath. Now you’re
almost equally matched with the empire you oppose.

You suddenly realize that you’ve moved beyond the romantic
image of the righteous Ronin that you wore when you started out.
Since your followers no longer feel like rebels, since they’ve
become a nation unto themselves, you could definitely have a problem
with people feeling like they’re exactly like those that
they fight—just with a different dogma.

To learn how to prevent this, we look to “Matriculated,” the
final segment, and the most difficult to wrap our heads around. “Matriculated” begins
with a woman and some kind of monkey thing in a jar, looking out
at the ocean. They are waiting for robots, and they get them. They
flee, with the two robots behind them, and lead them into a trap.
One robot is destroyed, but the other is salvaged and hooked into
a Construct program, built with the purpose of convincing the machine
to change sides.

After a sequence that can only be described as Tron on
acid, the machine meets with the “residual self-image” of
the woman he was chasing earlier. She takes his hand and they go
flying through a flurry of light so psychedelic I expected “White
Rabbit” by Jefferson Airplane to start playing (either that
or Hendrix’s “Purple Haze,” but “Rabbit” fits
better with the whole Matrix mythology).

On this groovy trip, the robot falls in love with the human who
leads him. Thus, when more robots attack the base the humans have
set up, our robot hero joins the fight with the humans just in
time to save his human guide. With the two of them the only ones
left alive, the machine plugs the human woman and himself into
the Construct. The robot attempts to restart the romantic episode
was interrupted by his evil brethren, but the human woman flees
and—apparently—dies.

This longest of the shorts (“Renaissance” was in two
parts) ends much as it began, with the robot sitting on the beach,
still focused on his mission, waiting for the next of his kin to
come and be converted. This job is what the robot must do, because
he is the only one left to do it.

To maintain the drive of your followers, they must see themselves
as different in some way from the rest of humanity. Hitler used
racial-superiority propaganda on his Third Reich, and if it hadn’t
been for Uncle Sam stepping in to kick some Aryan ass, he might
have succeeded. True, Britain held them off for a while, and the
Russians did the same. But the attitude evoked by invoking “Uncle
Sam” is an illustration of another effective tool: patriotism.

Patriotism, religious zealotry, genetic “superiority”—all
are effective ways of convincing your followers they are special,
that this group of which they are a part is somehow chosen. That
it is their divine duty to bring about the utopian vision you have
painted for them.

Once this is accomplished, you get to sit back, relax, make the
occasional morale-boosting speech, and watch as your world is shaped
just the way you want it. Vive le roi.

Za’chary Westbrook, 18, was homeschooled
and is an incoming freshman at Western Baptist College in Salem,
Oregon.